


If This Was Our Last Time, What Would We Say Then?

by monopolizeme



Series: He Was Pointing At the Moon but I Was Looking At His Hand [7]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Established Relationship, M/M, Slow Build, mild violence, quiet talks, unspoken anxiety
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-05
Updated: 2013-05-05
Packaged: 2017-12-10 13:02:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,367
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/786317
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/monopolizeme/pseuds/monopolizeme
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles wakes up agitated one morning. It’s not due to anything he can discernly place, but it’s there: itching at the ridges of his spine, spreading through his shoulders, right beneath the skin, like something physical and tangible but he cannot reach, cannot tear off that layer of flesh and dig beneath into the tendons and grasp with his fingers and pull it <i>out</i>.</p><p>Derek seems to notice the slightly more than usual twitch in Stiles’ bones, the way he can’t seem to sit still while eating and the way he stiffens whenever Derek tries to touch him. But Derek doesn’t say anything, just lets the back of his knuckles linger against Stiles’, tries to soothe the agitation from his skin by faint touch and Stiles wishes that he could reciprocate, he does. Because this is <i>Derek</i> and Derek <i>understands</i> in ways most people do not and they are returning back home soon and then this is all going to be <i>over</i>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	If This Was Our Last Time, What Would We Say Then?

 

The shower handle gives a squeak when Derek shuts off the water, the sound of lingering droplets falling onto the tiled floor. Stiles  hears the rustle of a towel as Derek dries himself off in the bathroom, and he nibbles at his mouth, does his best not to fidget so much on the mattress.

Derek pads into the room silently and Stiles dares a peak up at him when he hears Derek rummaging through his duffle bag. Stiles is often left wondering if seeing Derek in nothing but a towel, firm taunt body still dripping wet, is an infuriating thing ( _god Derek, let me just touch a little_ ) or the most glorious experience to behold, and Stiles should really be cataloging a lot more of this to memory, rather than just staring wantonly at Derek’s back. He’ll need these images for the next time Derek is too busy with Alpha business to come and jerk Stiles off.

Stiles grapples blindly for his phone lost somewhere within the mess of untidy sheets, eyes fully trained on Derek, the twist of muscles that bunch beneath his shoulders, the way his arms flex and tighten, skin still damp with steam and rivulets of trailing water.

“Touch that phone and I’ll break all of your fingers.”

Stiles swallows, tries to wet his throat. Because Derek is still very naked and the thought of Derek anywhere near his fingers ( _sucking them into his mouth, teeth an erotic scrape against knuckles and skin and tongue swirling around_ )- is, _ohgod_ too much.

“With your teeth?” Stiles rasps.

Derek casts Stiles’an unamused and slightly threatening glare over his shoulder, because Stiles still refuses to stop throwing Derek’s old phrases back at him as if they are now terms of endearment or something.

But Stiles must look as flustered as he feels because Derek gives a little relenting sigh and moves to Stiles’ side. He places one large hand on Stiles’ shoulder, squeezes gently and presses his mouth against Stiles’, open heat and _yes_ , glorious slide of tongue as he angles Stiles’ head back with a gentle push.

Stiles moans a little, lets his free hand slide through Derek’s damp hair, tugging at the soft ends. He thinks that he could get drunk on this, kissing Derek slow and sweet like they have all the time in the world, to just kiss and kiss until one of them can no longer breathe anymore (and it’s always _Stiles_ who has to surrender first, _damn werewolf stamina_ ). It’s wet and lazy and Derek curls his tongue against the roof of Stiles’ mouth and lets his teeth scrape against the wet inside of Stiles’ bottom lip. Stiles makes a little whimper in the back of his throat, fingers twitching against Derek’s naked stomach, hard smooth skin beneath the pads of his fingertips, and Derek inhales deeply like he is trying to drink in Stiles’ scent.

“The way you fucking _smell_ , sometimes, Stiles,” Derek mutters into his mouth, and it’s sloppy and wet and Derek’s tongue licks at the corner of Stiles’ open panting mouth, lips red and gleaming.

His hand cups around the back of Stiles’ neck, pulling him roughly against him, as if their mouths could possibly get any closer but Stiles has no mind to dissuade him. It hurts a little, the angle of neck and the way his head is tilted too far back, throat bared and arched for Derek to nip at if he wanted to. But Derek seems too preoccupied with Stiles’ mouth now, and that’s just perfect, it’s _wonderful_ and Stiles is too selfish to let Derek pull away, bites at his mouth in irritation when he tries to.

Stiles can feel the way Derek’s fingers move idly over the bite at the back of his neck. He’s always touching it, like he can’t get enough of it, eyes staring at the wound sometimes as if he can’t believe that Stiles actually let him do it, or at least that Stiles doesn’t bitch about it. But Stiles loves it, he thinks that it will probably scar a little as it heals and he is perfectly okay with that.

His fingers curl beneath the soft damp towel at Derek’s waist, tugs at the knot but then Derek’s hand clamps around his wrist. He shoves Stiles’ head back one more time with a kiss that is too rough and rushed and hungry and Stiles gasps, breath stopping in his lungs and he throws one hand back against the mattress to brace himself –

And then Derek is pulling away, dragging Stiles’ bottom lip slowly between his teeth as he steps backwards.

“You absolute _tease_ ,” Stiles breathes out. He’s pretty sure that his heart is a vibrating pulse that is deafening to Derek’s ears. 

But Derek doesn’t seem to mind, slipping a shirt over his head and pulling up his underwear and then (regrettably) a pair of black jeans. And Stiles doesn’t miss that tiny flash of a grin on Derek’s mouth as he dresses.

“Bastard tease,” he mutters, giving up on his phone and pulling the local newspaper on his lap instead. He’s totally not going to give Derek the chance to gloat over the fact that he is hard. _Again_.

Derek pads his way over to the bed and stretches out on the mattress, bracing himself on his elbow as he lays on his side, feet resting behind Stiles. He tugs part of the paper out of Stiles’ hands and settles it in front of him, chin tilting down as he reads idly.

“So,” Stiles begins, his voice trailing off.

“Hm?”

Stiles scoots closer to Derek, clumsy and too much movement so the mattress dips and jostles about.

“I guess we’re going back now?”

Derek looks up at him, gives a small tilt of his head.

“Seems that we should,” he replies.

And Stiles nods, chews on the corner of his mouth. He leans back into Derek’s space and pushes at Derek’s hip with his hand, until Derek finally yields with a small smile and leans back, shoulders fitting up against the pillows propped up against the head board.

“Should we return the way we came?” Derek asks, as Stiles slides easily on top of him, straddling his hips between his thighs and settling his weight on Derek’s lap.

Stiles thinks about that, about the possible implication behind those words.

He shakes his head. “A different route. Doesn’t seem right to go back the way we came, don’t you think?”

Derek’s hands curl around his waist, thumbs dipping below the waistband of Stiles’ jeans to rub circles into his skin. He’s still got small broken scabs there, from where Derek had dug his nails in from the night before, and whenever Stiles shifts the coarse denim rubs over those swollen gouges and causes the scabs to break and bleed. Stiles silently loves it.

“But we’re stopping off at a city this time around,” Stiles tells Derek, pushing his fingers under Derek’s shirt, palms pressing flat against the smooth hard muscle. He scrapes his thumbnail in the soft trail of hair below Derek’s navel, grins when he feels the muscle twitch in reply.

“A city?” Derek murmurs, eyes darkening as they focus on Stiles’ mouth. “Why?”

“Because,” Stiles says, a teasing glint in his eyes. He lowers himself onto Derek’s chest, bracing his weight on his hands and mouths along the hard curve and dip of Derek’s collarbone. Derek arches his neck as Stiles sucks into the skin. “You’re going to take me to some ridiculously fancy penthouse where you’ll fuck me up against the window for all the city lights to see.”

Derek’s voice breaks into a startled laugh.

“I see you plan on milking everything you can out of this trip.”

“That’s not the only thing I plan on milking,” Stiles replies lewdly, teeth snapping gently at Derek’s jaw.

Derek makes a noise as if Stiles’ absolute failure at talking dirty is physically painful to endure.

“Honestly, the shit you say-“

And Stiles rears up to his forearms and kisses Derek silent, mumbling into his hot open mouth, “You love it, my sourwolf.”

Derek doesn’t protest.

-

“Definitely the worst Chinese food I’ve ever tasted,” Stiles proclaims, despite the fact that he has half a box’s contents stuffed into his cheeks.

“It might actually taste like food if you bothered to eat the selections individually,” Derek answers, his chopsticks spearing a slice of white chicken meat from the carton in Stiles’ hand. “What you’re doing – I don’t even know how to label that.” 

Stiles sticks out his tongue, fails miserably and gets rice all over Derek’s chest.

-

On Thursday it rains. They turn on the television and watch the weather forecast, shoulders and hips and knees touching as they sit on the edge of the bed as the gentleman in a suit makes motions over Seattle and various other towns that Stiles has never heard of.

The weather does not seem to have any plans on relenting its showery mess for the rest of the day. So Derek pulls the remote from Stiles’ slacken fingers and flicks off the television, hands moving to Stiles’ waist as he leans back against the bed, pulling Stiles to follow.

They spend the rest of the afternoon with Stiles spread flat over Derek’s body, chest and knees pressing, their shoed feet tangled over the edge of the mattress. Stiles trades secrets with Derek’s mouth, slow and open and lazy, as Derek draws notes of his own against the pale skin of Stiles’ lower back, nails raking gently and without purpose.

Stiles is beginning to wonder if he smells like anything other than Derek.

-

Stiles wakes up agitated one morning. It’s not due to anything he can discernly place, but it’s there: itching at the ridges of his spine, spreading through his shoulders, right beneath the skin, like something physical and tangible but he cannot reach, cannot tear off that layer of flesh and dig beneath into the tendons and grasp with his fingers and pull it _out_.

Derek seems to notice the slightly more than usual twitch in Stiles’ bones, the way he can’t seem to sit still while eating and the way he stiffens whenever Derek tries to touch him. But Derek doesn’t say anything, just lets the back of his knuckles linger against Stiles’, tries to soothe the agitation from his skin by faint touch and Stiles wishes that he could reciprocate, he does. Because this is _Derek_ and Derek _understands_ in ways most people do not and they are returning back home soon and then this is all going to be _over_.

Stiles snaps at Derek five times on the drive, and it’s all frivolous nonsense that Stiles cannot even justify – the volume of the radio ( _how the fuck am I supposed to hear it so low?_ ), and the creak in Derek’s leather jacket when he shifts to turn up the dial to appease Stiles’ testy complaints. They pull over twice, once so Stiles can buy three burgers and a pack of fries from the travel station and another when Derek stops at a gas station to buy stain remover because Stiles has managed to get ketchup, relish, mustard and grease stains all over the upholstery of the car seats.

The tense and sharp agitation in Stiles’ body seems to be affecting Derek in a way that is almost worse for him than it is for Stiles and by the evening Derek’s jaw is locked, knuckles griping the steering wheel so tight that there are permanent imprints in the leather when Derek releases his hands.

There is a crawling against the inside of Stiles’ wrists that he can’t scratch away no matter how hard he tries (and he does, his left wrist is nearly covered in swollen angry welts). And when Derek accidentally brushes against that irritated spot when lowering the radio, a silent determined twist of his fingers finishing the job, Stiles responds in a knee-jerk reaction and smacks Derek’s hand away.

Derek pulls over to a motel not too long after that.

There are only three other cars in the parking lot (it looks like it could only hold ten at the most anyway) and the paint is cracked in too many spots all along the front of the one-story motel walls. The sign reads Motel Palace, a poor pathetic thing of electricity that flickers and dies every few minutes.

Stiles scoffs at the name and Derek doesn’t bother to wait for him as he stalks towards their room.

He’s shucking out of his garments in tight fierce movements, muscles tensed and bunching beneath the stretch of his grey Henley.

 “Dude, you took a shower this morning and sat in a car all day – there’s no way you’re dirty again.” Stiles says. It’s an unnecessary jab but Stiles is tired and the agitation that had built in his neck is starting to wax on his nerves and now he’s starting to feel a mixture of guilt and resentment at himself for being so irritable in the first place.

Derek just grunts and closes the bathroom door behind him.

Stiles lets out a sigh, it’s the kind that is full of self-loathing and silent berating and his posture just slumps into a pathetic mess of slouched shoulders, his neck arching forward as he stares listlessly into the ceiling.

He’s genuinely surprised that Derek even bothered to ask for one bed and he spends a good minute and a half eyeing it, like he’s not sure if he should actually crawl into it or take a spot by the door and let Derek have the bed. But his limbs ache, sore and tired against his bones and his ribs feels too big in his chest, against his skin, all disconcerting and amiss as he drags off his shirt and jeans and buries himself beneath the sheets.

Stiles is awoken to the dip of the mattress, the quiet rustling of blankets and he is dimly aware of Derek’s warmth settling around him. The blanket is eased from his shoulder and Derek slides his arm around Stiles’ waist, drawing him close. Stiles is grateful for it, because Derek seemed to have been in the mood where he would not have wanted anything to do with Stiles, too tired and agitated, the kind of mood where he would lay flat on his back and _away_.

And Stiles wouldn’t have blamed him. He doesn’t _understand_ , any of this, and he wishes that he could just say that instead of making everything so complicated when there isn’t _time_ for that.

Derek pushes his nose against the back of Stiles’ head, draws a line from the base of his skull to Stiles’ ear, breathes in, his whole chest swelling and tightening before the release.

Stiles lifts a hand and sluggishly touches the wrist bone pressed against his ribcage.

‘M’ okay,” he mumbles. “it’s alright.”

“Need to  _know_ ,” says Derek.

-

It had been a topic that they had never broached. Stiles knew that he was a human and by default could not belong to any pack but he did, really, in some way. There was Scott and his unconventional pack of a human boy and a female hunter and a girl who was immune to the supernatural. And then there was Derek, the Alpha, with his small pack of werewolf Betas but there was the boy included in that was well, the boy who came to Derek’s aid without ever being asked to, the boy who asked Derek to belong to him, who had given himself to Derek in return.

“You can’t belong to two packs,” Boyd had told him once, irritated at Stiles’ mixed loyalties.

But Derek had never made Stiles choose, had understood that Stiles could never leave Scott, could never abandon his best friend who couldn’t seem to keep himself out of trouble.

Scott had never asked him to choose either, although Stiles often found himself under that dark accusing gaze, in which Scott struggled with the unspoken want to question, to make Stiles choose.

And the decision had never been a conscious one at that. Stiles had just sort of stumbled into it in the same obtrusive and forceful way he did with everything else in life, crashing into some kind of revelation with clumsy haste.

They had been searching for Derek and Scott for hours, and Stiles had paired up with Allison to search the abandoned warehouses at the edge of town, the wheels of Stiles’ jeep screaming along the pavement – he was always so stupidly anxious all of the time, no quiet resolve like Allison kept bundled beneath her skin.

The warehouse had reeked with wolfsbane, thick clouds of purple ash filling the air and Stiles had nearly choked on it when they entered, his eyes watering and throat convulsing. Shafts of light from the streetlights filtered through the dust and Stiles had spotted them immediately: two crumpled heaps strewn across the cement floor.

Both Derek and Scott.

And Stiles _knew_ , in some distant part of his mind, that Derek would be in better condition than Scott, because Derek had been a werewolf all his life and Scott had only a year to experience the change and Derek was the _Alpha_ , he was stronger and could fight off the effects of the wolfsbane but somehow none of that mattered.

Stiles was skidding across the pavement and crashing to his knees by Derek’s side in an instant, pulling Derek’s solid heavy weight into his lap, hands shaking, lips trembling and mouth wet with the build of saliva.

_Derek, Derek, ohgodplease, tell me you’re alright, were there bullets, just-_

Later, as they drove back, Scott still panting in the front seat and Allison driving, fingers knuckled white on the wheel, with Stiles in the back and Derek breathing quietly against his chest, Stiles had tried to rationalize it. Had told himself that he knew Allison was there behind him and that she would _of course_ run to Scott’s aid, so of course Stiles had to go to Derek because if he hadn’t then Derek would have been _alone_ , he wouldn’t have anyone at all, Stiles _had_ to go to his side because Scott had _Allison_.

But he knew, with a kind of sickening dread, that such reasons were not the accurate truth. He would have rushed to Derek even if Allison had not been there.

Stiles had chosen Derek.

-

“Off, off, Derek, get that off _now_.”

Stiles is pulling his own shirt over his head, desperate frantic movements as he tries to maintain the contact of skin against skin with Derek. He shoves his palms flat against Derek’s shoulders and Derek lets him, allows Stiles to slam him full-bodily against the motel wall with a _thud_. He grabs at Stiles’ jeans and all but rips them down his thighs, nails grazing the flushed skin and Stiles whimpers and thrusts against him.

_Two more days, two more days._

Derek hauls him in closer, mouth open and harsh against Stiles’ lips, bruising the already tender flesh but Stiles doesn’t care, scores his nail-bitten fingers down the length of Derek’s bare arms and Derek hisses into his mouth, grabs him by the ass and lifts him _up_ against him.

Stiles doesn’t need any encouragement, squeezing Derek’s hips between his thighs and he straddles him against the wall and Derek isn’t even bothering to try and remove Stiles’ boxers. He just shoves them to the side and thrusts into him, too much friction and pressure and Stiles throws back his head and _keens_.

Two more days and then it’s all over, the end of just _them_ , just like this, together and without eyes to pry and poke at them and Stiles not having to worry about the bruises on his throat and at the back of his neck and everywhere that Derek fastens his _mouth_ upon. And Stiles is shaking against Derek, at the thought of what it will be like once they return home and Derek remembers that he’s twenty-four and Stiles is seventeen and what that will mean when everyone really starts to notice exactly how much Stiles _belongs_ to Derek.

“Oh, fuck, too much,” he gasps and rocks his hips furiously into Derek, sucking on Derek’s neck as Derek keeps slamming  into him, biting Stiles’ earlobe, his jaw, his bottom lip. It’s too fast and too reckless all of it, and Stiles knows that he’ll feel it later, can already feel the tension building in his lower back with each snap of Derek’s powerful hips.

But Stiles doesn’t _care_ , he doesn’t care right now because he is trembling on the edge of something terrifying, like standing at the side of a bridge and looking down and knowing that if the railing were not there that you could go tumbling over, down, down with no net to catch you safely.

Derek is holding him by the waist, holding him firmly in place as he fucks deeper into Stiles and he is whispering cracked little moans into Stiles’ mouth, incoherent and utterly ruined and Stiles just presses one hand flat against the wall for purchase as he clings to Derek’s waist, knees digging into the hard muscle, squeezing tight.

“Stay with me, Stiles,” Derek rasps and Stiles wraps his arm around the back of Derek’s neck and buries his forehead into the small sweaty space between Derek’s shoulder and neck, breathes in deep, thick suffocating air that threatens to tear apart his lungs.

“Here,” Stiles pants. Here, always here.

It’s Derek who he fears will be the one to _go_.

-

Stiles wakes with a start, heart pounding in his chest much too fast. He’s laying there in the dark, trying to let his body adjust to the shock of suddenly being awake, but his brain is spinning too fast and his limbs can’t seem to catch up, too sluggish and useless, caught between that state of being fast asleep to abruptly startled into consciousness. He focuses on shallow, steady breaths and then puts out a hand to where Derek is, solid comfort, wanting to hear sleepy words mumbled against his throat, _It’s alright, Stiles, go back to sleep_.

But the spot beside him is empty, cold dry sheets beneath his quivering hand and that is enough to make his heart triple in his chest.

“Derek?” he says and bolts upright, tensing when he sees Derek standing by the window.

He is fully clothed, hand clenched by his side as he stares out the window. His body is a taut line piercing through the thin shaft of light spilling through the window and the flickering motel sign casts dancing shadows across his face.

 “Derek?” Stiles breathes. And Derek gives a hardened look, eyes intense, brows drawn tight and shakes his head, signal to not speak.

 _What is it?_  Stiles mouths.  _Pack?_ And Derek nods. Stiles climbs out of bed, pulls on his jeans and shirt and unzips his duffle bag to pull out his hunter’s knife. He winces at the drag of the zipper, but then thinks that his heartbeat is loud enough for any werewolf to hear anyway. He shoves the knife in the back of his jean’s waistband, comes to stand beside Derek, who places his hand at the back of Stiles’ neck immediately, an urgency behind the movement, a need to _touch_ Stiles _right now_.

“How many?” Stiles whispers and Derek shakes his head, eyes trained upon the darkness of the outside. His slides his hand around the curve of Stiles’ neck to clasp softly over Stiles’ mouth and Stiles is breathing hard through his nostrils – but he can’t breathe at all. He is trying to see, trying to sense or understand but he _can’t see_ anything.

Derek’s mouth moves to Stiles’ ear: “Five, maybe six.”

Stiles feels the words formed against his skin and he shivers. _Too many._

Suddenly there is a crashing through the room, the door splinters open and Derek is shoving Stiles _back_ shouting something that Stiles cannot understand. He grapples for his knife but his body is being twisted and thrown to the ground by inhumanly strong hands. His cheek bone smashes against the carpet and there is a tremendous weight pressing _down_ on him. A large hand clutches the back of his head, fingers pressing in and Stiles can feel the pierce of sharply edged claws digging into the contours of his face. A knee shoves into his lower back and there is so much weight behind it, crushing Stiles’ lungs and making his face turn red as blood vessels burst beneath the skin.  Stiles gasps, feels his throat constrict, his fingers scrabbling at the rough fibers of the rug. He tries to get an elbow behind him, tries to strike back but his wrist is being yanked forward, over his head, pinning his body fully against the floor.

He hears someone scream “ _Alpha!_ ” and there is a grunt that sounds wet and strained and _god_ is that a terrible sound. He tries to say _Derek_ and he twists his face as much as he can, hears a warning growl behind his ear and the nails extend but Stiles has to _see_.

There is a flash of red eyes that slice through the darkness and then Stiles feels his blood curdle in veins because there are  _two_ pairs of red eyes now and  _Derek is not the only Alpha_.

Everything is moving too fast, they’re both moving _too fast_ and Stiles doesn’t understand why no one is concerned about waking the motel owner or maybe they killed him, maybe they killed everyone, like they’re going to kill Derek, like they’re going to kill him.

A body slams against the wall, a crunch of bones and the grunt that follows and Stiles can only think,  _He’s not strong enough, Derek isn’t strong enough._  Because the other Alpha has a  _pack_ , and it’s stronger than Derek because Derek didn’t bring his  _pack_  with him.

There’s a muffled shout, claws tearing through skin and the awful, sickening sound that makes.

_No pack, no pack at all._

Just a stupid human boy who can’t do anything at all.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Once again, thank you to my beta, Becky ([thatfire](http://archiveofourown.org/users/thatfire/pseuds/thatfire)).  
> And thank you all for reading. :)


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